Olena remembered Kyiv by its footsteps. Saturday footsteps were slower. Viktor would take Oksana's hand, while little Pavlo found reasons to stop every few yards. A wooden toy at a kiosk. A ball. Something sweet. Something he had seen on the ground that absolutely had to be inspected. They were rarely going anywhere important. That was the point. Above them, the horse chestnuts made a green roof over the pavement. In June they flowered white and pink, and the evenings seemed reluctant to end. Sometimes, walking home, Olena could see the Dnipro catching the last light between the buildings. She used to think the river carried the heartbeat of the city. Their apartment was on the fourth floor. It was an ordinary apartment, except that Olena had filled it with another place. Her grandmother's red-thread embroidery hung on the walls. There were heavy feather duvets, handmade and absurdly warm, and pillows into which the children almost disappeared. On certain summer evenings, when a window had been left open, Olena could close her eyes and smell the countryside of her childhood. Sun-dried hay. Warm black earth. And somewhere much further back, the soft rubber wheels of a horse-drawn cart rolling along the village lane. Sometimes she could still hear them. Years later, she would wonder why these were the things memory kept. Not birthdays. Not important conversations. Not the days anyone had thought worth photographing. A wheel turning. Viktor's hand. Oksana trying to keep pace with him. Pavlo wanting one more thing from the kiosk. Chestnut blossom on the pavement. Bread. That evening, Olena had gone downstairs to buy bread. It was still warm when she left the kiosk, and she held it against her chest as she walked home. She was almost there. Then the world changed shape. She would never remember the sound properly. She remembered what came afterwards. Dust. For a few seconds, perhaps longer, she couldn't understand what she was looking at. She knew the street. She knew the pavement beneath her feet. She knew the chestnut trees. But something that belonged between them was missing. Her building. Her fourth-floor windows. The white walls. The duvets. Her grandmother's red threads. Viktor. Oksana. Pavlo. Olena stood with the bread pressed against her chest and called his name. "Viktor!" There was no answer. Dust settled on the smashed concrete. The bread slowly became cold inside her hands. Many years later, the rooms that remained were broken and overgrown. Olena grew older too. The city changed around her. The Dnipro continued towards wherever rivers go when nobody is watching. People hurried along pavements beneath trees that had once shaded four people walking home together. And the chestnuts still flowered in June. That surprised her most. For years she had heard the old words. *Hey, hey, rise up.* Once, she had thought rising meant becoming what you had been before. She knew better now. Some things did not mend. Some losses did not become lessons. Grief did not owe anybody a triumphant ending. You simply carried what remained. A village lane. Red thread. A husband's face in the evening sun. A daughter's hand inside his. A little boy choosing a wooden toy. Warm bread. And the memory of walking home. Sometimes Olena returned to that street. She would stand beneath the chestnut trees and look towards the place where her home had once been. And very quietly, she would say their names. "Viktor." "Oksana." "Pavlo." Then she would listen. Somewhere beyond the trees, beyond the street, beyond all the years she had survived, she could almost hear voices. *Hey... hey... rise up...* Further away now. *Hey... hey... rise up...* Until there was only the city. And the chestnuts standing above her. [Intro] [Verse 1] The... D'nee-yeh-purr... carried the city's beat, We knew... our Kyiv... by its streets. We walked... the paths... where chestnuts... bloom, Long evenings... walking home... in June. A wooden toy... a kite... a ball, A happy day... to bring them all. My husband’s hand... the children’s pace, The sunlight... dancing... on his face. [Verse 2] Our rooms... held pieces... of my country past, Handmade... duvets... made those memories last. I still... can smell... the sun-dried hay, Warm black earth... where I would play. Soft rubber wheels... along the village lane, I hear them... rolling past... again. But the whitewashed walls... are broken... stone, And the rooms... I loved... are overgrown. [Chorus 1] Oh... the white walls... of my home, Grandmother's red threads... carefully sewn. HEY! HEY! RISE UP! the people cry, Their voices... rising beyond my walls, The red kalyna... bending as evening falls. HEY! HEY! RISE UP! ...I hear them coming home. [Bridge] Warm... against my chest... the bread of wheat. Standing... on... our favourite... street. I turned... to call... “Viktor!”... out loud, But he... was lost... inside... the cloud. No laughter... now. No children’s... feet. Only dust... settling... on the smashed concrete. The red-thread weave... grandmother had sewn, Buried... with everything I'd known. One moment... a home. The next... a ghost. [Chorus 2] Oh... the white walls... of my home, Grandmother's red threads... carefully sewn. HEY! HEY! RISE UP! the people cry, Their voices... rising beyond my walls, The red kalyna... bending as evening falls. HEY! HEY! RISE UP! ...I hear them coming... [Outro] The bread... is cold... inside my hands. On the sidewalk... where the... chestnuts stand. Vik-tor ... Ok-sa-na ... Pav-lo ... HEY! HEY! RISE UP!!! Hey ... ... rise ... ... up ... Hey! Hey! Rise up... Hey... hey... rise up... hey... hey... rise up... [End] Lyrics copyright 9/2026 Steve Jarvis All rights reserved
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